


Fragments of a Larger War

by unveiled



Category: Babylon 5, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Child Neglect, Consent Issues, Eugenics, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-10
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 21:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unveiled/pseuds/unveiled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snapshots of a universe wherein Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr are side-characters whose stories just so happen to take place off-screen, fitting into and around the <i>Babylon 5</i> canon, instead of being the main protagonists driving the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Space, No One Can Hear the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> horusporus is totally to blame for this fusion coming into being in the first place, though to be fair I did borrow her DVDs for a memory-refreshing marathon.
> 
> Inspired by the [Rainy Day Cuddles, Cookies, and Tea Fest](http://pocky-slash.livejournal.com/1567055.html). I'm only almost two months late!

Two weeks into the brownout, even the usual stolid whoosh of the station doors had taken on a sullen groan. Maintenance kept basic life support going while teams of muttering technicians hunted for the cause of the power failure, but at the cost of heating to most of the quarters in Blue Sector.

It had not been a good fortnight for any of the station personnel except Summers and Muñoz, who had to beat away would-be participants of spontaneous slumber parties with sticks.

Erik had credits riding on "energy-sucking parasite" as the cause of the brownout, with a favour placed on an additional bet that Captain Sheridan would be somehow entangled in its discovery. Cassidy had bet on "something really boring -- yeah, I'll go for wiring malfunction", while Salvadore put her credits on "a lost colony of an unknown alien race" with a sardonic smirk.

Upon being ranted at on day four, Charles had leaned an elbow on their usual table at Eclipse, propping his chin with the heel of his hand. He'd looked at Erik over the detritus of their lunch and waited patiently for Erik to run out of steam, then merely said, "My quarters in Red Sector has heating and a comfortable bed."

His smile was charming and brightly sincere, even bracketed by black Psi Corps gloves. Erik hadn't been back to his quarters since except for a change of clothes.

Once past the entrance to Charles's quarters, Erik automatically stripped off his Nightwatch band and dropped it inside the Bowl of Dubious Provenance. Charles's badge was already neatly centered at the bottom, a pointed reminder -- as if he could easily forget -- of the rules of cohabitation they'd threshed out in-between no-holds-barred arguments and make-up sex. He checked that the security settings were in place, listening to Charles shuffling around in the bathroom and knocking over something that made tinkly, metallic noises.

Erik strode to the bedroom and undressed quickly, hanging his uniform jacket next to one of Charles's hopelessly out-of-fashion cardigans. When left to his own devices, Charles had an unfortunate tendency to dress like Rabbi Barenboim during children's counselling hour, despite Erik's increasingly desperate pleas for him to fucking join the rest of humanity on the cusp of 2260 already. It was an odd contradiction in the otherwise neat jigsaw of Charles's traits and peccadilloes: that he could be annoyingly enthusiastic about new scientific discoveries and the advancement of humanity, yet be so attached to fragments of a history he hadn't even been taught to feel part of. Charles read real paper books by long-dead (non-teep) fantasy authors, had a predilection for memoirs, and periodically showed up at antique auctions for music records by mid-twentieth century human singers.

Charles liked playing normal, though nothing in his psi abilities and Psi Corps training made him anywhere close to being "normal", by mundane human standards.

Erik placed his PPG and commlink on a chest of drawers on his side of the bed, checking the PPG settings and energy cap by habit. He wondered, not for the first time, when this thing between him Charles changed from a slow dance around boundaries and uncertainties, to being lovers done with staking out comfortable territories within the topography of each other's daily life. There's a mug in the kitchenette designated as his, a preferred seat on the sofa -- with the firmest cushion, close to the door -- and a politely delineated space in the wardrobe.

 _Polite_. That was the only description he could muster for the way Charles now breached his personal space, once certain of Erik's continued presence, so unlike the assiduous pursuit that was Charles's idea of a courtship. A rustle and a gentle creak signalled Charles crawling across the bed towards him, wrapping flannel-clad arms around Erik's shoulders from the back.

Charles sighed, warm breath gusting across the lobe of Erik's ear. His lips pressed soft kisses on Erik's throat -- under his jaw, at the pulse point, a minute flicker of tongue on stubbled skin -- and shoulder, nuzzling up again to breathe in the scent of Erik's hair. Charles's skin was damp from a hot water shower, the flush of warmth quickly cooling in the chilly air of their bedroom.

Under Charles's hands, Erik allowed himself to be guided up the bed, back pressed against the headboard. Charles leaned away from him and reached for a steaming mug on his bedside table, handing it to Erik with a wry smile.

"Enjoy. Babylon Control commed the entire Red Sector warning of possible brownouts," he said. "The temperature started dropping half an hour ago."

"Fuck," Erik said feelingly.

"There's some hot water left--"

"No, this is fine," Erik interrupted. He was exhausted, _Charles_ looked seconds away from passing out despite his smile, and he'd settled things for the night. What didn't need to be done right at that second could wait until they were both ready to contemplate the world outside their bed. He took a sip of his tea, rolling the words around in his head. It was a very Charles-like sentiment, pragmatic but fundamentally alien to the man he once was.

Charles's eyes brightened. He curled up against Erik's side like an affectionately demanding cat, throwing a leg over Erik's thigh. Erik slid an arm around him, squeezing tight for a minute, and let himself sink into an animal-like satisfaction in touching and being touched in return.

He rubbed his thumb gently against the dark circles under Charles's left eye. "Clients?"

Charles exhaled into Erik's shoulder. "In part. I had to take on some of Ms. Winters's former clients, at least until she returns."

"She's not coming back, Charles."

"I know. It's just--" Charles tucked a hand under Erik's t-shirt, pressing lightly on his belly. "Polite fictions. Sorry. I had to tell quite a number of them today and the habit has stuck."

Erik handed the mug to Charles. "I doubt the Narns appreciated them."

"It depends on the individual, really. Hope is a surprisingly common desire across sentient races." Charles looked up, saw Erik's expression, and frowned. "Erik, I can't not continue working with the Narn refugees. They need more than--- than just a bandage and rations."

"It doesn't have to be _you_ , Charles. You're barely a P4 and you go into the minds of fucking _criminals_ every other day--"

"If not me, who else?" That stopped Erik dead, denials and arguments tangled together into a wordless knot, and Charles must be reading his mind, because the kiss brushed across his chin tried hard to be soothing. "There's _no one else_. Most human telepaths, even those trained as counsellors, won't scan Narn minds. It's just me and Tallenn and Kala, and the Abbai government is already making noises about Kala breaking the neutrality pact."

"Charles, not even you can do the work of three people," Erik said, making one last desperate pitch. "You can't be a commercial telepath and a rehabilitation counsellor and an aid worker at the same."

"Honestly, it's becoming easier now that Security stopped glaring at me for 'messing with our cases'. You would think they'd be happy for convicted offenders to be rehabilitated instead of repeatedly taking up space in detention."

Erik eyed Charles's benevolent, maddeningly condescending smile. "You know they're only waiting for you to do something they can arrest you for."

"Well, then. It's a good thing they haven't been very good at lying in wait." Charles drained the last of the tea and set the mug aside. He said, casually, "I heard Keffer hasn't given up."

"No, he hasn't." Erik ran his fingers through Charles's hair, watching the way Charles's eyes close in pleasure. "Don't worry about it. No one else knows what I know. Just you."

Charles pushed himself up to kiss Erik on the lips, sweetly pliant when Erik dragged him onto Erik's lap. "Yes, just me," he whispered. "I'll never tell. You do trust me, don't you?"

In answer, Erik dragged his nails up Charles's spine, swallowing Charles's gasp in another kiss. Charles radiated affection and yearning, and Erik wondered at it, wondered if telepaths higher on the psi scale could wipe the will of non-telepaths they took to bed. If that was one of the reasons they preferred to be with their own kind. Charles, merely a P4, dissolved the boundaries separating their minds between one sigh and another, until Erik couldn't tell who wanted that, who desired _this_.

He shivered.

Charles pulled back, just a little. His eyes traced the lines of Erik's face, watching Erik with studied neutrality. Erik almost said, _no, it's not that, I trust you_ , but the words lodged in his throat; when he finally gathered his wits together, Charles had already pulled the blanket and sheets around them like a cocoon, Erik's world narrowing into soft warmth and Charles's clever, clever mouth.


	2. The Empty Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set before "In Space..." Also posted to [my DW](http://unveiled.dreamwidth.org/tag/series:+fragments+of+a+larger+war).

He's never been so free from fear in his life.

Charles launches himself out the airlock with an explosive burst of air and debris, depressurisation protocols sacrificed to expediency. The _Infinity_ 's captain shouts something over the comm about Babylon C&C. He replies with some vague reassurances, the words forgotten as soon as they leave his lips.

His body hurtles towards its beacon: a mind brighter than the stars around him, brighter than anyone he's scanned since Raven left. He'd been on the bridge as the _Infinity_ sailed majestically out of hyperspace towards Babylon 5, and felt its call sparking in his brain with bursts of fear and rage, drawing him helplessly into orbit.

For a moment he regrets the limitation of his physical form, but the mind calling to him was encased in flesh too. Flesh and bone and skin, too fragile to withstand vacuum for long in a malfunctioning space suit. His mind has limitations, too: telepathy can't wrap itself in a suit for a rescue. Without these human arms and hands, can he pull the man out of the darkness?

But his mind _is_ faster, expansive, touching the other man before his body does. _Be calm, Erik Lehnsherr_ , he says. _You are not alone_.

 _HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME WHO ARE YOU GET OUT GET OUT_.

 _Shh_ , he says. _Almost there_ \--

And then they're suddenly cleaved together, body-to-body, his arms clumsily grasping Erik's shoulders. They're on the dark side of Epsilon III, and beyond the flickering lights of Erik's helmet he sees the curve of the planet, a dead Starfury spinning towards its surface.

He senses the captain's decision before she makes it, her warning crackling in his ears. Behind him 321 minds cry out, their voices jittery in unlikely hope, as the starliner moves into position behind its auxiliary shuttle and closes in on them.

 _Erik_ , he says urgently, _you need to activate the magnetic locks in my boots_.

 _I CAN'T_.

 _You can. I know you've been hiding. I know why you're hiding. But if you don't do this, we're going to die_.

Erik's mind shudders. Charles breathes out, reaches out, twines himself around Erik's memories. _Please. I promise: an evil man did this to you, but what he left behind_ isn't _. Because no matter how hard he tried to carve it out of you -- Erik, believe me, please -- you've always been the better man_.

A moment teeters between two paths, then the brightness of Erik's mind flares into a sun, shining through Charles, warming him inside out. Distantly, he hears the magnetic boots powering into life, dragging them towards the grappling claws of the _Infinity_ 's shuttle.

He feels liberated, his secrets and sorrows razed down to expose the best of himself: the moments of instantaneous connection and love -- how sweet, how addictive -- his telepathy makes possible, a source of unmitigated joy for once, untainted by the necessity of deception.

 _Raven_ , he thinks.

To his surprise and delight, Erik reaches back, _Who is she?_

 _My sister_ , he says. _A secret for a secret. Would you like that?_

The _Infinity_ swallows them whole, human and shuttle. The shuttle reels Charles and Erik gently into an empty cargo hold, its artificial gravity pulling them back down to earth, momentarily strange after the weightlessness of space. They fall heavily onto the deck, sitting ducks for the swarm of entirely unnecessarily medical personnel bellowing at them to remove their helmets.

Something of the giddy feeling remains still: Charles grins as he meets Erik's eyes for the first time -- grey-green, dilated -- and laughs at the flummoxed expression on his handsome face. Every inch of him emerging from under the suit is a revelation anew, and Charles wants to strip himself bare, offer whatever Erik wants for the chance to touch again.

"Oh," he breathes, "you're _marvellous_."


	3. Alien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's another Charles Xavier whom Erik doesn't know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this set of photos](http://thoughtsnotunveiled.tumblr.com/post/12890691898/mrkinch-my-brain-absolutely-refuses-to-produce). This takes place sometime after "In Space..."
> 
>  **Warning:** Consent issues and eugenics, as per _Babylon 5_ canon.

Charles never talks about his cases, for all the garrulous joy he takes in expounding on every other topic under the sun. Erik generally finds out after the fact whenever Charles is scheduled, in tandem with another telepath, to carry out a mindwipe upon a sentence of death of personality. It doesn't happen often. He gathers from Security chatter that Charles is good at what he does, and it's all he cares to know. He wishes it's _all_ he knows.

On days like this, Charles lays out his black suit, the one that fits his trim figure like his Psi Corps gloves. Erik hates it: his Charles wears khakis and the blues of spring skies and soft synthetic knits. The Charles Xavier in black wool and leather reminds Erik of a Psi Cop, forces him to ask himself who is it he loves. This Charles is alien, is _wrong_. The walls of the station lean away from him as if terrified, friends drop their eyes to the deck and melt away into the safety of the crowd. Even the rogue telepaths -- feral and dangerous, they say -- seem more human than the Charles encased in black and his Psi Corps badge.

Erik can't ever forget that Charles isn't human the way he is, even after what Schmidt did to him on Beta Durani. He buries the admission deep inside his mind, to be dug out and examined only when Charles is at the other end of the station.

Charles talks about his past in random anecdotes strung on an invisible line, stretching from his first day in Teeptown to his arrival on Babylon 5. The silent gaps in-between lie in wait for Erik to stumble into them headfirst, in their bed or over coffee or while holding hands in the Zen garden. Erik has known about the breadth of Charles's love for his sister for months before he finds out that Raven isn't actually biologically related to Charles.

"She was assigned to me as a peer mentor," Charles murmurs into his neck one night, as they lie warm and quiet in a nest of tangled sheets. "Raven made training fun -- we used to play hide and seek, back when the Corps was experimenting with less structured instruction methods."

"Is that right," Erik says, half-asleep.

"Mmm. She's a P10, high up the hierarchy."

Erik nods into Charles's hair.

"The Corps wanted us to marry and have children together," Charles says around a yawn. "That was before I tested out as a P4, but we are genetically compatible nevertheless. They assured us that any child of ours would be at least a P8 or higher on the Psi scale."

Now alarmingly wide awake, Erik blinks and asks, dreading the answer, "Did you marry her?"

"No, of course not. Raven was ambitious -- still is, I suppose -- and I wouldn't have been able to support her the way she needed. Even if we both wanted children, I'd make an utterly terrible parent."

"I thought--" Erik takes a deep breath. "You said Raven is a sister to you."

"Not by blood. And I do love her. I'll always try to make her happy. If she wanted what the Corps had in mind for us, I would've given it a good go." Charles runs the tips of his fingers over Erik's cheekbones, carelessly affectionate, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I'd do anything for _you_ , too."

Erik feels the hair on the back of his neck rise, and he suppresses a shiver.

"Raven's somewhere out there, where I can't reach her," Charles continues, a thread of sadness and longing weaving through the whispered words. "I've been trying to find her without jeopardising, well, whatever she's doing right now."

Erik props himself up on an elbow, looking down at Charles, at the obscene red of his mouth and the aristocratic arch of his brows. "That's why you avoided Bester. So he couldn't tear it out of your mind."

Charles reaches up, tugging Erik down for a kiss. "Partly."

He'll remember this conversation, later.


	4. Heart's-ease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet is set just before the B5 episode "A Race Through Dark Places", which takes place about three months after _The Empty Hand_. There's a rough timeline for this series [here](http://unveiled.dreamwidth.org/2819.html?#cutid1). Note the revised rating -- there is some explicit sexual content in this snippet.
> 
> I still blame horusporus for this.

"May I see you for a few minutes today?"

Erik doesn't think anything of it when Charles makes the request -- Charles is occasionally, infuriatingly opaque and unpredictable -- but perhaps _asking_ should always be standard operating procedure when Charles springs these things on him. He certainly should be asking questions when Charles pulls him into a dimly-lit alcove, which he belatedly realises is a blind spot for the station's surveillance cameras.

Charles kisses him as soon as the shadows close around them, licking fervent _please_ s into Erik's mouth. The badge at his throat catches Erik's fingers when he curls a hand around Charles's neck, making him hiss and jerk away. Charles doesn't seem sorry for the interruption, though. Charles looks-- Erik's not sure if Charles realises how much his eyes give him away with their expressiveness, and right now Charles looks like a man about to hang.

Before his rationality returns to question his own impulse, Erik leans down to kiss Charles on the brow, the corner of his right eye, the slight hollow of his cheek. Charles exhales a wordless moan, wrapping his arms so tightly around Erik that Erik feels his ribs creak.

They stay like that for a while, swaying on their feet.

Then Charles pushes Erik back with the heels of his hands against Erik's shoulders, ever so gently. And drops down to his knees, lithe and graceful, dipping his head low, lower. Erik's about to protest, because surely he's not about to do _that_ here, with the greasy debris of the station all around them -- but the submissive incline of Charles's back makes a convincing case for assent, and he feels the words drying up when Charles stops just above Erik's left boot, kissing the join where leather meets fabric.

Charles follows the line of Erik's inseam with his mouth, brushing up Erik's calf and nuzzling affectionately at the inside of Erik's thighs as his hands undo Erik's zipper. He pauses then, looking at Erik through his lashes, a silent question in his eyes.

Erik swallows, and nods.

Charles doesn't waste any time teasing -- he's enthusiastic and impatient, tugging down Erik's trousers and underwear with a soft curse. Erik tenses up at the feel of Charles's gloves, but they're warm from Charles's hands and the sensation on his skin is more strange than unpleasant. He decides he doesn't care, just as Charles's hot, wet mouth closes around his cock.

None of their previous sexual encounters has prepared Erik for this: Charles on his knees, eyes closed in bliss, looking for all the world as if he's content to suck Erik's cock for as long as Erik will let him. Erik sinks his fingers into Charles's hair and _pulls_ ; Charles frowns a little but doesn't let up, his tongue as clever in this as it is in speech, and Erik forces himself to look away before he babbles something embarrassing.

Charles moans, wetly. A thread of doubt winds its way through Erik: he's been assuming that Charles's dogged chase is only half-serious, executed as much for the thrill of the hunt as anything else. This -- the luxurious indulgence of Charles's mouth, the gentle curl of Charles's hands around Erik's hips -- feels like something else, something Erik isn't quite sure he wants. He glances down, guilt flickering briefly amidst the rush of lust, but Charles shows no sign of having picked up on his thoughts, and Charles's mouth is a red, swollen ring--

After, Erik reaches for Charles, intent on reciprocity -- in pleasure, not whatever else it is that Charles wants -- but Charles shies away from him.

"It's all right," Charles says. "There's no time. I'm leaving Babylon 5 for a few days and I-- well, I wanted to see you before I leave."

Erik blinks, thrown. "Coffee at the Eclipse would have been fine," he blurts out, unthinking, and almost immediately wants to sink through the deck.

Charles grins and licks his lips. "But not quite as much fun. See you around, Erik."

"Damn telepaths," Erik mutters to himself, zipping up his trousers. He pretends he's not watching Charles rounding the corner, disappearing from sight.

********************

Charles doesn't let the tension in his shoulders uncoil until his ship enters hyperspace, mere hours ahead of Bester's arrival on Babylon 5.

He feels himself worrying at his bottom lip and forces himself to stop, already tasting the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. He would much rather taste Erik instead, the lingering bitterness of his body and mind. It's perhaps not the best of ideas, to have ambushed Erik into a semi-public blowjob, but Charles still revels in the fact that he's _allowed_ to do this -- three weeks now, after the first time Erik says yes.

Charles switches to auto-pilot and sinks back in his seat, letting his mind furl out like a fluttering banner. _Raven_ , he broadcasts, _are you there?_

He doesn't expect an answer anymore, but he keeps hoping. What has he to lose? Conviction is the only thing left for him, and the regrets stacking up in the corners of his life.

 _I'm sorry, I would have warned you if I could_ , he thinks towards the station, but the words remain trapped in his mind. Charles hopes the rogue telepaths find a way to escape Bester, no matter how unlikely it is.

He'll carry the guilt for the rest of his life, but he can't risk coming under suspicion. Not now, when his machinations finally have him ensconced in Babylon 5, at the crossroads of interplanetary news and gossip. Raven has stepped foot on the station once upon at time. Though her trail is already cold when Charles arrives months ago, he knows that one day, he'll find someone who knows someone who knows something. Anything.

 _I love you, sister_ , he sends out, raw and aching. Charles pulls his telepathy back, makes it small, folding it into something innocuous and easily missed.

Raven is the only person who knows that Charles is a P4 _in practice_ , not in actuality. He doesn't know how powerful his telepathy is, only that he and Raven recognise each other immediately as kindred spirits, even though they'll eventually disagree on the path towards the culmination of their desires.

No more hiding.

Charles's mouth lifts in a rueful smile. Raven wants to discard the gloves but keep the badge and all the power and authority it represents, while he wants to be rid of both altogether. Charles knows he's dangerous; he doesn't need or want fear, and the wedge it drives between him and others.

He looks down at his gloved hands. Uncertainty thrums in his chest: has he done well enough in appearing human to Erik? Mundane norms are terribly difficult to grasp sometimes, even without the specific complications of Erik. He thinks about the tangled complexity of Erik's mind, his strength and his contradictions, and how Erik will probably never want to admit to the visceral, unpleasant emotion he feels at the thought of _alien_. Ten years later, Charles thinks, and the scars remain.

Charles closes his eyes, imagining camellias painted brightly on paper, folded into a four-pointed star box. Every crease sharp and perfect, each point the exact same length. He turns it around and around in his mind, examining the folds. He drops a penny into the box, a mere fraction of the telepathic power he can bring to bear, bound up in the memory of his mother and the lessons she taught him.

His last line of defence is an illusion. Should a Psi Cop -- Bester, for example -- realise that Charles is more than what every test the Corps put him through says he is, should his shields be breached, he still has this: most people will only think to look _into_ the box and not at the box itself, the true manifestation of his power. He paints the thought in a spray of cherry blossoms on the box, plucked from the corridors of his memories.

Charles breathes out. He doesn't think about loneliness.


	5. To All Things There is a Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place around the third season opener "Matters of Honor". The title quotes one of G'Kar's lines in the episode. From here on, the stories written in the "Fragments of a Larger War" universe will take place chronologically, except where noted -- there's at least one flashback snippet coming down the line.

"This is my fault," Erik says, over and over. "Keffer was Zeta Leader -- _my_ squadron leader -- and I should-- should have--"

Charles hushes him and pulls him close, wraps himself around Erik like a blanket. He doesn't mind that Erik's fingers are digging grooves into his shoulders and back, bruises that he'll probe tenderly later. They watch the ISN broadcast of the feed from Keffer's starfury, stare at the terrible thing from Erik's nightmares turn its weapon towards Keffer before the recording cuts off in a burst of static. 

After a day or so ISN seems to have dropped any mention of the alien ship, moving on to other news with a smile so fake Charles didn't need to use his telepathy, but the vision plays in an endless loop in Erik's head. It haunts Charles through his nights by Erik's side, both of them fruitlessly chasing sleep. The memory makes Erik melancholy and angry in turns, distracts him into pouring hot water all over his hand when he makes Charles a cup of tea.

They ring in the new year with silence, touching each other in the warm confines of Charles's bed. Charles tries to make a date out of it earlier in the evening, having looked up mundane customs for the passing of the old year and the coming of the new. The candles are inexplicable but beautiful, once lit, and they make Erik's mouth lift in a smile, sweetly surprised.

Charles makes one mistake, though: he talks about his work with the Narn refugees and exiles on the station, burbling happily of plans for a registrar and supply packages. Through it all, Erik's mood turns from calm to a rocky storm, chewing his dinner as if it had personally offended him.

"Don't you think," Erik says, "you should be paying more attention to humans?" He jabs his fork towards the Babcom screen. "What's happening now is just the beginning of something bigger. We're under _threat_ , Charles. And in the end, no matter how friendly you are with the Narns, they'll either sell us useless scraps under the guise of "help" like the Centauri or wait for us to implode from the inside out and rob what remains."

There's no salvaging dinnertime conversation after that, though Erik kisses him in apology later, his hands pressing promises on Charles's skin.

In the quiet of the hours between night and morning, Charles presses his lips against Erik's temple and closes his eyes. Erik is finally sleeping again, fitfully, dreaming the same dream he's had almost nightly for too many years: a man's face -- Schmidt, that's what Erik calls him -- looming over Erik, the ozone and copper taste of circuits, and through the eyes of the computer ( _I shouldn't be able to see this_ , Erik is saying, _I'm not the machine, why am I--_ ), a spidery black ship screaming across the skies. This time, though, Erik doesn't just see his mother's dying face, pinned under the rubble of the medical station, but also Warren Keffer's body, burned almost beyond recognition.

********************

  


Erik finds it strange that Charles loves to spend what little idle time he has in the passenger lounge, watching the stream of beings going through Immigration. The security officers are used to seeing Charles propped up in a chair with a book, bestowing upon them a smile variously described in their heads as "creepy" or "too innocent to be real, what the fuck".

He tries to explain it to Erik once. How wondrous it is to feel the minds of different races and species, some so alien that Charles doesn't even have the language -- and he knows quite a few -- to describe how they think. Babylon 5 is a place for wanderers and fortune-seekers, all mooring their lives to the station with heady excitement and hope, sometimes guilt and fear. The ones who leave are almost as interesting, being either full of satisfaction, or starved with failure. Mostly, though, he loves the reunions: lovers, families, friends, relationships that have no mundane human equivalent. It's nice. Normal.

"You're a terrible eavesdropper," Erik says.

"I don't actually actively _scan_ them," Charles says, feeling mildly insulted. "That would be against the rules."

Erik gives him a look that says, plainly, he has his doubts about Charles, but is willing to play along until Charles proves him right.

He supposes that Erik is right to be suspicious. Charles likes the passenger lounge because it's the best place to be looking out for any information that might steer him in the right direction. The mind can be disciplined into guarding its thoughts, but there's no helping the instinctive relief once one gets through a fearsome hurdle: in this case, the customs check. People are only people, in the end. They tend to think the loudest when they're nervous about the secrets they're hiding.

Charles taps the spine of his paper book against his chin, thinking. He's been uneasy and sensitive since Keffer's death -- probably the backwash of distress from Erik. He doesn't think he's wrong to be wary of Ambassador Mollari's human acquaintance, though. It's not even because he's had so much contact with the Narns, it's becoming an effort to remember that their hatred against the Centauri is not his, and certainly shouldn't colour his interaction with Mollari and his people.

He watches Chief Garibaldi lead David Endawi through customs. What a pleasure Endawi's mind is -- bright, honed like a knife. A pity, that his business hasn't allowed for the possibility of a chat with Charles. A long chat, over tea. Charles smiles to himself. A tired-looking woman with auburn hair passes by Garibaldi and Endawi, carrying a travel bag smudged with dirt. She hands her Identicard to a security officer, who duly inserts it into his reader. The officer squints at the reader screen, takes out her card, and re-inserts it.

"A problem, officer?" The woman's voice was controlled and precise, better suited to a career soldier than someone dressed like a small-time trader. A fine brooch is pinned to her blouse, above her heart, just about hidden by the lapel of her coat. Her eyes pass over the passenger lounge, meeting Charles's gaze for a bare second.

_Oh_. Charles, very carefully, opens his book and pretends to read.

"Naw, there's just something going on with the reader... there we go. Welcome to Babylon 5, Ms. MacTaggert."

"Thank you."

MacTaggert slips into the controlled chaos of Babylon 5 with the casual ease of someone trained to make herself invisible. Charles tilts his head, watching her movements over the edge of his book. He takes a few mental notes, resolves to incorporate what he learns from MacTaggert into his own strategies, then gets to his feet and goes after her.

She spots him sooner than he thinks, but no matter how good her training is, she's still a mundane and he's still a telepath. He plucks her route -- wonderfully circuitous -- from her head and nips ahead, settling in to wait behind a wall of cheap synthetic fabrics masquerading as hand-woven tapestries.

"Hello," Charles says into her ear.

MacTaggert doesn't jump, or curse. She goes very, very still, her right hand poised under the fold of her jacket. Her eyes track his face, the badge at his throat, the movements of his body.

"I'm unarmed, I promise." He spreads his hands, gloved and empty of weapons. "You were looking for me, you see, so I decided to stop by."

She looks unimpressed. "If I was looking for anyone, it was never you, Mister...?"

"Charles Xavier. How do you do, Moira MacTaggert?"

She doesn't betray so much as a twitch. "The Psi Corps have rules about unauthorised scans."

"Oh, yes. Strict ones." He smiles at her. "But you see, my sister left a very distinct imprint on your mind, and I have a strong interest in knowing _why_ she was with-- oh, I see. It's not just humans, then, which makes you people all the more curious. Non-Minbari on Minbar. That wasn't where you met her, though, was it? You know her as Mystique, I believe."

"You, Mr. Xavier, are treading on the last of my patience." The wariness sharpens into suspicion, shot through with a scorching blast of anger. "She said I'd recognise you by a token of her affection."

Wordlessly, Charles takes off his right glove and holds out his hand to her, palm side up. A mottled scar bisects his lifeline, slicing it neatly into two halves.

"I know I haven't given you any reason to trust me," he says. "But I won't turn you in to Earthforce or the Corps. I _was_ just showing off, I'm afraid -- and I don't actually care what Raven was doing with you and your... friends. I want very much to know if she's all right. That's it."

MacTaggert gives him a hard stare, her dark eyes as forceful and pitiless as a searchlight. "Mystique is alive, the last I saw her. About six weeks ago," she says. "The Corps reassigned her to one of the colonies -- she didn't tell me which one."

Her stare turns appraising. "She's not-- one of us. But she said you could be. A friend of mine concurs. Tell me, Mr. Xavier, do you believe in precognition?"


	6. The Holly and the Ivy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is set immediately after the second season episode _Divided Loyalties_ (in my [series timeline](http://unveiled.dreamwidth.org/2819.html#cutid1), that would place it about a month before "In Space..."). Because I always did wonder how they got Talia off the station without worrying over possible sabotage and/or escape.
> 
> Written for [stickmarionette](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stickmarionette/pseuds/stickmarionette) and originally posted [here](http://thoughtsnotunveiled.tumblr.com/post/22291818235/fragments-of-a-larger-war-the-holly-and-the-ivy). **Warnings** for minor character death, child neglect, and alcoholism.

She was waiting for Charles when he disembarked, unmistakable in the pristine black of a Psi Cop. Her elegantly arched eyebrows rose with her disapproval as she took in his appearance, rumpled from a side-trip he was definitely _not_ telling Erik about, and she remarked, "Once again, Charles, you missed all the excitement."

He staggered slightly under the force of the mindcast, information pouring from her mind to his with all the delicacy of a waterfall. She didn't believe in mollycoddling.

"Oh, really, you could be more gentle," he complained, wincing. If there was a suggestion of a whine in his voice, well — she always did bring out the child in him.

Emma Frost gave him a smile as wintry as her name. "And how _is_ my wayward prodigy?"

He laughed and took her hands in his, leaning close to give her a kiss on both cheeks. "I've had better days." Charles paused, sifting through the information she gave him. "So did Ms. Winters, I expect."

She didn't smile, but ran a finger down the palm of his right hand, crossing the scar that lay under his glove. "Let's talk. I don't have long."

********************

Charles saw Emma for the first time when he was eleven, and she barely a decade older. She was only an intern then, dancing attendance on an older telepath. He knew immediately what her uniform and that of her male compatriot signified, of course, even if he hadn't been spying when the man introduced himself: _Elias Bogan, Psi Cop_. He'd been in town when they came to the school there — completely at random, they assured the teachers, which was a lie.

He knew what to do because his mother taught him. _Lie low_ , she'd said. _Like a mouse in the attic, unworthy of attention. Quiet, on tiny feet. Fold your mind into itself, so small it's lost in your paws._

His mother was asleep when he came home, curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace in her sitting room. Gently, he prised the gin bottle from her fingers and placed it on a side table, then draped a blanket over her. He checked that the fire screen was placed properly in front of the fireplace, and added another log to the fire. She was always at her worst the day after she was given sleepers, either drinking herself to sleep or doing things like breaking all the windows. On the whole, he preferred it when she took to the bottle. After her tantrums, she was always apologetic and teary, and Charles hated it when his mother cried.

He stroked her hair, pressing a silent _hello_ into her mind like a kiss. It wasn't his mother's fault she was this way — things would've been better had his father lived, or if the Psi Corps never found her. It was serve the Corps or take the drugs, and Sharon Xavier chose the option that let her stay in her labs and live in the old rambling mansion in Westchester with her husband and son. She really did love him, even if her best wasn't good enough by most people's standards.

Charles did the homework she assigned to him, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. On good days his mother was a wonderful scientist and instructor, better at imparting knowledge than any of the teachers at the school he used to attend. She pulled him out of school when it became harder for him to hide his telepathy, and said, "Even if you stayed, they wouldn't have let you skip a grade. What a waste of your time and intellect."

The Xavier Mansion, with its generous library and sprawling grounds, was big enough a world for an eleven-year-old. Once they had a gardener, a strapping woman with iron-grey hair, but she left soon after Charles's father died. So did the cook, and Brian Xavier's valet, who taught Charles how to tie his shoes. Now berry bushes lay tangled with rose brambles, heaving over the boundaries of once-neat beds, and sparrows nested in the roof eaves. It was beautiful, a child's idea of paradise.

Charles wandered outside as soon as he could put down his tablet, looking with dismay at the drifts of snow covering the driveway. The grocer was a little lazy with his deliveries, and took any excuse not to drive up to the "creepy" mansion. He hoped it was the grocer's son doing the rounds today — he always had a smile and a story for Charles.

The sharp, ringing cry of a downy woodpecker distracted Charles from his thoughts. He grabbed the bag inside the woodshed, and ran off to replenish the bird feeders. 

********************

Emma's mild horror at his degenerate state eased somewhat after Charles ushered her into his quarters. He made a pot of tea while she wandered around, lingering over traces of Erik's presence in his life: a mug that sat forgotten after the last breakfast they shared, a jacket tossed casually over the back of a chair. She had made herself comfortable on his sofa, gloves and boots discarded, when he came out with a tray.

"Your boyfriend," she said. "He's human, I presume. A mundane."

He poured out a cup of tea for her, stirring in two teaspoons of sugar. "Yes. His name is Erik."

She waved away Erik's name with a genteel sneer, and patted a spot on the sofa next to her. Charles went willingly, surrendering his hands to her as she tugged off his gloves, touching skin-to-skin. He sighed with pleasure.

"Are you sure you don't have time? For a footrub, at least."

"Rain check." She tilted his head up, fingers lifting his jaw, and rubbed at his mouth with a thumb, parting his lips. "I've been hearing interesting things about you, darling. When I supported your request to be assigned to Babylon 5, it was with the understanding that you'll be conducting research into the telepathic rehabilitation counselling for criminals. Not to get involved in the Narn-Centauri War."

He closed his eyes, briefly, and leaned into her hand. It felt so good to be touched like this, purely for the wanting. "I couldn't _not_ help, Emma. I was careful not to seem predisposed to support one side over the other — I help only the Narn refugees on the station, and I still have Centauri clients."

"I could scan you," Emma said thoughtfully. "But you have a singular talent for truth without honesty, and to fully unravel your twisted plotting would require — I suspect — a crime writer and a scan deep enough to turn you into a vegetable."

He smiled at her and caught her hand, pressing his lips to the inside of her wrist. "And you are very fond of me."

"True, you won't be quite as much fun as a marrow." She tilted her head, looking at his face closely. "By the way, I have news of your sister." 

********************

In the years to come after their actual meeting, Charles would always associate birdsong and the crisp whiteness of snow with Emma. He'd just climbed down from a tree after filling a feeder with suet and sunflower seeds and was picking up the canvas bag of food when he heard the sound of footsteps crunching on ice, and he'd looked up to see Emma watching him a few feet away.

 _Hello_ , she said to him, the first person to touch his mind other than his mother.  _I'm not here to hurt you. I'm like you._

He shuffled back, wary and ready to flee. _No, you're not_.

She smiled. It made her blue eyes seem brighter. _Yes, I am. I bet you heard the voices since the day you were born, too. That they never leave you, and loneliness is something you wish you were capable of feeling._

 _No one's ever spoken to me like you_ , he thought to her, wondering.

 _You and I, Charles, we're special. Like knows like._ She held out her hand, gloved in black leather. _Come with me now. I'm—_

 _Emma_ , he finished. _Emma Frost_.

Her gaze abruptly sharpened in intensity, but she didn't say anything. Her grip was strong as she led him back to the house, where his mother was waiting next to Bogan at the front door, wringing her hands.

"Charles," she began, but Bogan cut her off. He said, "How would you like to go to school with others of your kind?"

"You'll have friends to play with," Emma added. "And we'll make sure everything you need will be taken care of."

"But—" Charles hesitated. "What about my mum?"

"She's made her choice, honey," Emma murmured, over Sharon's loud protests, crouching down so she and Charles were of height. "It's time for you to make yours."

Charles looked at his mother, suddenly terrified and unsure. Her bloodshot eyes were shiny with tears and Charles saw, with precocious clarity, that his mother wasn't going to get any better. Sharon Xavier was slowly killing herself, drink by drink, and he was going to watch her die before him. He couldn't take care of her any more than she could take care of him.

"I'll— I'll go," he whispered, looking down.

Sharon screamed, a long, haunting wail that filled Charles's ears with pain. Emma put her arms around Charles, pulling him to her side, her body gone tense and alert. _She's harmless — she's just sad_ , Charles thought, but couldn't seem to force the words out of his mouth.

"Fine!" his mother spat out. "Leave me, then, just like everyone else." Sharon crumpled to her knees, sobbing. "If you were half the man your father was, you would have stayed. But no, of course not — you had everything that was him, his eyes, his face, except what made him good."

"Mum," he croaked. Emma's grip held him fast, unyielding despite his best efforts to break free and run to his mother.

"Go away," Sharon cried. "You're a fucking changeling, Charles. You're not fit to carry his name."

Charles remembered everything, but what he recalled of the time seemed to take place behind glass, distant and untouchable. Emma helped him to pack his bags and put them in the back of a car, while Bogan made himself scarce — presumably to sit with Sharon. Charles didn't see her again until they were driving away, and he caught one last glimpse of her at a window, watching.

"She's wrong, you know," Emma had said, when he snuffled tearfully into her coat. She'd taken off one of her gloves, cradling his head tenderly. "The Corps is mother, the Corps is father. Every single one of us is wanted, and none of us will ever be orphans." 

********************

"Mystique," Emma whispered into his ear, as a handful of words slipped into his mind on silent feet. "That's her code name. Keep it secret."

He nodded, crushingly grateful. "I will. Thank you, Emma."

"You should come back with me." Her fingers ran through his hair, affectionate. "Neuroscientists are a dime a dozen on Syria Planum, but no one knows alien brains the way you do."

"Not today. Next time, perhaps." He eased back from her, watching her watching him, and gently lifted her feet to his lap. He pressed his thumb into her instep. "Are you sure you don't have time for a foot massage?"

"You make a persuasive argument." Emma glanced at her watch. "I suppose Talia Winters will keep until I can escort her home. You may get on with it, then, my darling."


End file.
